off a little, in the distance, 
 comes a pattern strange and bold; 
 by the time we understand it, 
 it is gone, and we are old. 
 
 "off a little", so they tell me: 
 people steer around, away -- 
 maybe i'm not off that much, just 
 on some other world 
 
 or day

 we wonder, don't we, all the time, for 
 wonder's free, and pointless, much 
 like riding cardboard boxes down 
 an ivy colored hill, where once
 the answers strung like christmas lights that
 pointed to star, and not a bar, so there you are.

 and maybe i'm a little off my point, but
 but points are painful when we 
 sit or stand on them, and so
 find cushions in your truth, and let
 a little bit of ice be just enough to
 cool your drink, not too extreme, around
 the temples that we keep our minds
 within.